Mecca of Mecha

It's been a week since I opened my eyes in this tiny body, and if there's one thing I've figured out, it's this: this isn't a dream.

The estate where I was born sprawled across rolling hills, its grandeur both imposing and surreal, and from my vantage point in my father's arms, it felt like a world unto itself.

The path beneath us was made of smooth cobblestones that sparkled faintly under the light of the twin suns, winding toward a tall, grand building. The manor itself was huge, with columns that shimmered like they were alive and walls that looked as if they were made of glass, reflecting the suns' light in brilliant rainbows that danced across the ground. Along the path stood statues of people I didn't recognize—maybe old heroes or members of the family. Their faces were strong and serious, making them seem important and powerful.

As we moved closer to the manor, I noticed the gardens sprawling around it, vibrant with flora, flowers of every imaginable hue pulsed softly, their light brightening as we passed, as if acknowledging our presence. A delicate vine with tendrils that glowed faintly in the twilight crawled up the manor's crystalline walls, merging the artificial and the organic into a harmonious whole.

Servants moved with quiet precision through the estate, their attire as immaculate as their bearing. Some wore flowing robes adorned with intricate patterns, while others had sleek uniforms. Despite their quiet efficiency, they exuded an air of reverence, as though every movement was part of a sacred duty. One paused to bow deeply as we passed, a gesture my father acknowledged with a curt nod. 

I glanced up at him, noting the sharp lines of his features and the calm authority in his amethyst eyes. His platinum white hair, tied neatly at the nape of his neck, gleamed under the twin suns. His presence exuded a protective strength, his arms steady as he carried me forward.

As we approached, the doors began to open soundlessly, their movements smooth and deliberate, revealing an interior that glowed with a warm, ambient light.

My father exchanged a few words with one, his tone measured and commanding, before continuing down the corridor.

Every little detail around me feels overwhelming. The way sunlight — or whatever this light is — casts intricate patterns on the walls, the sound of birds chirping—sharp and melodic—everything is so vivid that it's almost suffocating. Dreams blur at the edges, don't they? But this world doesn't seem to.

The people here speak a language that I don't understand. I've spent hours trying to decipher their meaning, but it's like grasping at smoke. From what I gathered up until now there are some words borrowed from Russian, and also some Spanish words, but the grammar is neither Slavic nor Latin. I've tried to listen for patterns, to pick apart sounds that might align with something I know.

My father carried me to my mother's room, servants bowing respectfully as we passed. When we reached the room, the double doors opened to reveal a space bathed in golden light, its ceilings high and adorned with intricate murals of constellations unfamiliar to me.

My father leaned down, his voice low and warm as he murmured a few words to her, words that, though incomprehensible to me, carried a tone of deep affection. Placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he whispered something before straightening and turning to leave. At the doorway, he exchanged a few brief words with a maid, who nodded and disappeared silently down the corridor.

Mother had a gentle and calming visage. Her face, though unfamiliar, stirs something deep within me, a longing I haven't felt for a while. Her long, platinum white hair falls in waves over her shoulders, and her sapphire blue eyes radiate warmth. Her hands are warm, her voice soft and melodic, and with those sapphire blue eyes she gazes at me with an expression I've rarely seen before: pure, unguarded love.

And there is also a smaller figure darting in and out of view, laughing and chattering in the incomprehensible language. Sometimes this figure leans over to peer at me with wide, curious eyes, giggling when I blink or yawn. A sibling, perhaps?

Was my reincarnation a fluke, some cosmic error? Or is there a purpose to this? The more I ponder, the more my thoughts spiral into a web of questions without answers. I think about the improbability of my existence here, the sheer absurdity of waking up as someone else. Could this be fate? Some grand design beyond my comprehension?

Despite the confusion and uncertainty, I have a feeling that this new life is a gift, an opportunity to experience the world with fresh eyes. For now, all I can do is adapt.

Another two week passed, and the world around me feels less mysterious. While the language barrier still frustrates me, certain words are beginning to stick.

The small figure I've come to think of as my sibling continues to fascinate me. She is a whirlwind of energy, her laughter filling the spaces between Mother's songs. She brings me brightly colored objects, shaking them in front of me and giggling at my wide-eyed response. Her joy is infectious, a spark of light that chases away the shadows of my lingering memories.

Mother cheers when I manage to grasp a rattle, her voice high and sweet like birdsong. My sibling claps and shouts, "Orion did it! Orion did it!" in the sing-song voice she uses to narrate everything I do. I find myself giggling at her enthusiasm at least in my mind, shaking the rattle with newfound pride. It's strange how much these small victories mean to them—and, if I'm being honest, to me.

"Me, the youngest Turing Award winner, a person with an IQ of 193, am so happy for shaking a rattle? What the hell is wrong with me?" It feels absurd, laughable even. Yet here I am, clutching this brightly colored object with tiny, shaky hands, grinning as it makes noise.

I never thought happiness could be so... uncomplicated. In my previous life, every achievement came with an undertone of emptiness, a lingering sense that I wasn't enough. There was always a bigger problem to solve, another accolade to chase.

At night, when the house falls silent, my memories start to resurface again. The life I once lived. The love I felt for those I left behind, the pain of losing my sense of self, and the fear that I might squander this second chance—they all blend together, forming a whirlwind of emotions that resonate softly in the background of my new reality.

Sometimes, I catch fleeting moments of clarity amidst the fog of my memories. The sound of her laughter, the glow of warm sunlight, the touch of a hand I once knew—they flicker in and out, leaving me yearning for something I can no longer grasp. A bittersweet memory from a world I once called my own.